


something borrowed, something blue

by rory_the_dragon



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brian and Freddie are having an Affair, Incorrect Timelines for Roger's Wedding but that's not rly important here, Infidelity, M/M, Maycury Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 17:30:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20492579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_dragon/pseuds/rory_the_dragon
Summary: Written for the prompt: it’s roger’s wedding and freddie’s had a little too much to drink. he gets very emotional during his speech and brian takes him outside to help him calm down a little.(Day one of Maycury Week)





	something borrowed, something blue

Freddie wakes up the morning of Roger’s wedding with the sun in his eyes and Brian’s mouth on his cock.

It’s an apology, Freddie knows instantly, because he stole Brian for the night when he really shouldn’t have which means that this morning Brian’s going to have to do the thing that Freddie hates most and leave. But Freddie’s limbs are heavy and relaxed with sleep, the bed is warm, and Brian’s clearly been working for a while because he can already feel himself edging towards the end, so Freddie puts that out of his mind and threads his fingers into the mess of Brian’s curls. He tugs, gently at first, then harder, the way Brian likes it, and groans Brian’s name with a throat still a little wrecked from last night’s activities.

It doesn’t take long. Brian’s too good, and Freddie’s too early-morning lazy to try and prolong the affair. Besides, Brian has to go, and nothing ruins a morning delight than Freddie giving his all to convincing Brian to stay, and Brian leaving all the same. Freddie’s had the argument enough times, thank you very much, he doesn’t need it on the day of his best friend’s wedding.

So he gives over to the moment. Last night was wonderful, champagne-drunk and laughing all night as Roger cried _ Come on, I’m getting married in the morning! _for round after round in the bar, until Brian’s arm around Freddie’s shoulders found the back of his neck, the curl of his hair, the seam of his jeans, no question of Brian going home for the night, and Freddie wants to enjoy every second he can get of it. So he comes hot and thick down Brian’s throat and yelps as Brian yanks him under the covers with a grin.

With the light of the sun filtering through the sheets, hair a spiralling mess from Freddie’s hands, Brian looks almost unreal above him. It’s as if Freddie’s still dreaming - no matter how many times he has him here, Brian in his bed in London always feels like a dream - and only evidence to the contrary is that Freddie can feel an ache between his thighs and Brian hard against him. 

But Brian pulls away when Freddie reaches for him, catches his hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles. Says, “I have to go. And you have rings to collect.”

And because Freddie can’t help himself; “Two minutes, darling-”

“-Is a lifetime when I have two kids to get in suits and dresses by one.” 

But Brian’s grip loosens all the same, the way Freddie knew it would because for all his virtues - and his many flaws - Brian has never really been able to be selfless when it comes to this. So Freddie takes him in hand and takes it slow, permission inherent in the way Brian leans down and kisses him open and lazy. Like there’s nothing else they have to do today except maybe go to a wedding together, slightly late and sex-happy.

Freddie’s suit is hanging on the wardrobe, pressed and ready. Brian’s is halfway across London. 

They aren’t going together.

Brian leaves while Freddie’s in the shower. And Freddie has to be alright with it so, by the time he steps out in a fluffy white towel, he is.

He wanders the house in his dressing gown, searching out breakfast ready-made on the kitchen counter, then searching out signs that prove Brian was even here at all. The painting in the hallway is askew from where they fell against it, Brian’s face buried in Freddie’s neck as they stumbled through the door, but aside from that it’s as if he were never here. Used to seeing two pairs of shoes kicked off by hotel room doors, their jackets thrown together in studios across the world, Freddie’s cigarettes spilling across Brian’s scrawled lyrics, it’s always jarring seeing a world where their lives aren’t so completely entangled together. 

It’s emptier, like this. Freddie hates it. 

He rights the painting, then heads upstairs to dress.

***

By the time Roger arrives with the car, Freddie’s head is back on track. The car is ridiculous, which helps distract him a little more, because Roger had outright rejected that Dominique be the only one to make a grand entrance at his wedding and had thus hired a second wedding car to arrive in himself. They probably look a right pair, gallivanting across London to run the last minute wedding errands they should have attended to last night rather than the pursuit of alcohol, but with his lap full of two wedding ring boxes, four neatly arranged boutineers, a string of empty cans to affix to the car later, and no less than sixteen extra boxes of confetti, Freddie’s finding it hard to care. Roger has the radio on and is singing along wildly as he tears out of the city and out into the suburbs where the church is waiting for them, and any emptiness Freddie felt is gone once again.

“What will I do without you?” He asks over the radio and the wind tearing through the window, and Roger grins with all his teeth.

“I’m not _ dying_, Fred.”

“You’re off on your honeymoon for three weeks, darling, you might as well be.”

Two months back in London, barely that even. They’ve been here two weeks already and Freddie can already feel himself splitting apart at the seams with loneliness. 

On the road there’s barely a minute to breathe, let alone think. It’s nothing to fall into Brian’s bed every night, real life so far away it can never touch them. 

In the studio, it’s different. It’s _ worse _ because it’s almost a life. 

But London fucks Freddie up every time they come back, and three weeks without Roger to distract him from Brian going home to his wife every night is surely more than Freddie can be expected to bear.

Roger hears what he doesn’t say, because he’s said it all before, reaches out and slaps a good-natured hand on Freddie’s knee. “We’ll be off again soon,” He says, quiet enough that Freddie can barely hear him over the old engine.

Freddie inhales sharply, and makes himself laugh. “Don’t let Dom catch you saying that.” He waves a finger, shifts his leg slightly so Roger moves his hand back to the steering wheel.

“Nah, she can’t wait,” Roger laughs. “Says it keeps us interesting.”

For a fleeting moment, before he forcefully shoves the thought away, Freddie can’t help but wonder if Chrissy thinks the same, or if she lives for these months in London the same way Freddie detests them.

***

The church is gorgeous, ostentatious enough to meet Roger’s standards but tasteful enough for Dominique. Freddie would wonder how they found it, if life didn’t always have a way of working out just right for Roger Taylor. It’s already heaving with everyone Roger and Dom know, along with a handful of others clearly up from the village just to spectate and a pack of reporters with cameras already flashing away.

Roger grins at the chaos, and hands Freddie a small silver flask from the inside of his jacket. 

Freddie takes a fortifying nip, then another, and Roger does the same.

“Let's find Brian and Deaky,” Roger says, like it’s simple, and maybe it is. “And if you see my soon-to-be mother-in-law, run.”

It takes them all in all nearly forty minutes to make it across the church-yard, everyone stopping them to clap a hand on Roger’s shoulder or cry into a hankie, and Roger hands out the extra confetti like he’s throwing drumsticks into a crowd until finally they’re at the doors. Freddie has the rings tucked into his jacket pocket, and his hands full of flowers for the pinning, and is laughing at the trying-not-to-be-obvious escape Roger’s making away from the beady eyes of Dom’s mother when he almost runs straight into Chrissy.

Brian is nowhere to be seen.

Freddie rallies. “Chrissy, _ darling_, don’t you look ravishing!” and kisses the air by both her cheeks in quick succession.

Ordinarily it would be a lie, satisfyingly false as Freddie kissed her wan cheek and complimented whatever drab number she had on for the day. But today Chrissy is glowing, lit up by the sun streaming through the stained glass. Really, it’s remarkable what eight months pregnancy can do for a complexion.

She kisses back, face beatific as her hand rests on the swell of her stomach, but her grey eyes are sharp as flint.

Chrissy knows. Freddie doesn’t know when or how she figured it out, whether Brian confessed to her one guilt-ridden night (_unlikely_) or whether Freddie himself dropped enough obvious hints, desperately trying to catalyst _ something_, but she knows that Freddie is the reason Brian left last year. It doesn’t matter that she knows; Brian still spent the night in Freddie’s bed. But Chrissy’s the one on his arm today. Chrissy’s the one with the wedding ring sparkling on her finger, no hint of a dent from where she threw it at Brian months ago, curved around the reason Brian went back.

Freddie hates it, hates her and Brian’s children even as he crouches down to compliment little Louisa on her dress and to straighten Jimmy’s bow-tie.

If Freddie had been born slightly to the left, it would have been that easy. Brian would have knocked him up young and it’d be his finger wearing Brian’s ring. It’d be worth the world tours and the millions, he sometimes thinks, just to have that.

“Roger, it’s absolutely wonderful,” Chrissy is saying when Freddie stands back up, her hand cupped possessively around the back of Louisa’s head. “Dom’s a lucky girl.”

“_Nah_, I’m the lucky one,” Roger effaces, charming and friendly with anyone he meets. “Not every woman who’d accept you back in her bed at midnight on her wedding day.”

Chrissy’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes, not that it ever did. “I thought you all stayed at Freddie’s last night?” She asks, delicately, and Freddie feels the breath whoosh out of him.

Roger recovers before Freddie does, instant boyish charm that’s melted many a stonier woman than Chrissy May in full force as he clasps a hand on Freddie’s shoulder. “Dropped me off on the way, didn’t they?” He laughs. “I think Dom paid them to make sure I didn’t run off the night before. Brian and John were almost asleep in the car, the absolute lightweights, so Freddie took them home.” 

Then he reconsiders, still laughing, “Well, Terry took them home. You weren’t in much better shape yourself, Fred. Bless him, though, offered to take me back as well. Dom might have preferred that in the end.”

It’s deft, the Roger Taylor Magic, but it’s a touch too far. Laid on slightly too thick in panic, and Chrissy isn’t moved at all.

She looks at Freddie, and it’s a look Freddie’s seen before but he’s seen it in Brian’s face. He and Brian might argue enough sometimes to bring the studio crashing down around their heads, but Brian truly angry is Brian cold and removed, blank to any emotion Freddie can throw at him because it’s the worst thing Brian could possibly do to him.

Freddie has never been able to picture an argument between Brian and Chrissy; he’s never been able to imagine enough passion sparking between the two of them to do so. But he thinks he gets a glimpse now. A cold war with no break in the front but for the well-placed remark that’s Brian speciality when he’s feeling spiteful.

He sees it now in Chrissy, and braces. 

“Oh, yes,” She agrees coolly, and Freddie hears the blow coming before it hits. “Freddie’s always so generous, isn’t he? Her mouth curls a little around the word _ generous_. “It’s a wonder we’ve not been to your wedding yet.”

“Give me time,” Freddie says, a touch too cattily, because he can never help himself with _Brian_ so he’s certainly not going to with his wife. He can feel his own lip curling as Chrissy’s eyes narrow.

Bitch.

Two champagne glasses dance by on a silver plate, and Freddie liberates them from the waiter with practised ease. He hands one to Roger and tips the other into his mouth in a gesture too close to hiding to feel comfortable, but the bubbles fizz away some of the horror of this whole fucking nightmare in his chest. It’s enough so that, when Brian finally makes his appearance at Chrissy’s shoulder, Freddie feels less like vomiting all over her tacky shoes. 

There’s a tension, drawn tight like a wire, and Brian picks up on it instantly. His face tugs in concern as he dips to scoop Louisa up onto his hip, but Freddie’s got so many years of biting his tongue when it comes to Chrissy that he’s bleeding with it.

“The car’s arrived,” Brian says, instead of asking, though he keeps his eyes on Freddie. He doesn’t see Chrissy turn her face up to see him looking at Freddie, and Freddie can’t stand to look at the pair of them right now. Can’t stand to see the concern in Brian’s eyes, the way he’s looking at him like he loves him, and can’t stand to see Chrissy seeing it. “We should get ready.”

If it weren’t for Roger’s hand on his shoulder, Freddie’s not sure he’d have been able to move, would have just remained stuck here in this shitty fucking situation until the damn wedding bells began to ring. As it is Roger tugs slightly and Freddie goes, pretend he doesn’t hear the way Brian murmurs to Louisa and hands her back to her mother. Probably kisses Chrissy’s cheek, hand on her swollen belly, and promises to find her after.

“You okay, Fred?” Roger asks out of the corner of his mouth as they make their way through the church, before Brian’s long legs can catch them up.

“He’s absolute shit at lying,” Freddie says lightly instead of _ No, but I will be_, because Roger’s heard that one before. “You’d think after ten years of this he’d have fucking learned. Bet you any money there was an incredibly specific anecdote that involved you being there.”

Roger laughs, says, “I’m not taking that bet.” Then, “We shouldn’t have invited her.”

“You couldn’t have not, dear.” Freddie does his best to shrug the whole thing off, lifts another passing champagne flute just as Brian catches up.

“_Freddie_,” Brian starts, catching his elbow, and Freddie doesn’t actually want to hear him finish, he finds. 

“Darling, _ don’t_.” It comes out a little too much like he means it. “There’s no point.”

The look in Brian’s eyes is pure conflict. Anywhere else and he’d be able to take Freddie off somewhere quiet to have the whole thing out. And Freddie would go and he would rage and Brian would pull him in close and soothe all the hurting edges again. Freddie wants to be able to do that just as much as Brian does.

But here they have a wedding starting soon and a packed aisle they can’t keep holding up. So Freddie pulls free and Brian lets him go and they follow Roger to the front of the church as the music starts.

***

It’s not Freddie’s fault he fell in love with Brian. 

It _ is _ Freddie’s fault he pursued him. 

He’d wanted him and he’d taken him. He hadn’t cared about the wife and the kids at home. He hadn’t cared about what it could do to _ Queen_, whether they’d survive the two of them. He hadn’t given a fuck about any of it when he’d taken Brian into his bed because he was young and stupid and in love with his best friend. All he’d cared about was the way Brian murmured his name, told him he loved him, and kissed him like there was nobody else.

Brian never promised to leave his wife, and Freddie never asked. It never seemed like it mattered, _ she _ never seemed like she mattered. So far away it was another life that Freddie never had to deal with until they landed back to earth. And whenever Brian could steal away during the hideous two months back in London, Freddie never wanted to waste time arguing about Brian leaving her. He wanted Brian in his home, in his bed, in his mouth; he didn’t want to spend a second thinking about the life waiting for him across the city. Besides, Freddie’d have him back soon enough. It’d be greedy, _ really_, to want more.

But then Brian left her. Came straight to Freddie’s door with a bag and he’d _ left her_. That night he’d fucked Freddie slow and open and aching just because he could, because he had nowhere else to possibly be and Freddie finally, _ finally_, had him. 

Then _ the _ phone call came. And Brian went back to her. To her, with her wedding ring and the baby in her belly and everything that Freddie could never give him.

So, no, Brian never promised Freddie anything. Except for how he promised him everything and took it all away again.

And Freddie can just _ feel _ how awful Brian feels, can feel it rolling off of him in waves, which is _ worse_, because Freddie loves him. Freddie has always loved him. He loves him enough that he even hates knowing how much this is tearing him up inside. Before there have been album parties and tour parties and fucking birthday parties that have required Chrissy attend, and Freddie has hated that she was there, drank too much and been rough with Brian in the aftermath out of anger at the whole situation, but he had still spent the night smug in the knowledge that Brian was miserable without him at his side.

Watching Roger and Dom stand up, eyes for no-one but each other as they declare their love, and Freddie can’t find an ounce of satisfaction in him. He feels hollowed out.

During the vows, Brian reaches out quietly and brushes the tips of his fingers to Freddie’s, and Freddie closes his eyes before gently pulling his hand away. It feels too much like once again being promised something Brian can never deliver.

***

Freddie has enough money in his bank account to buy the entirety of London twice over, it sometimes feels, but a free bar is too tempting to pass up.

He’s already dangerously buzzed. He hadn’t any appetite for the five course meal, picking his food around his plate with the tines of his fork and chatting idly with Dominique’s Maid of Honour, but the wine had flowed much too easily.

This is the level of inebriated that is the most dangerous for Freddie. He’s spent enough time at the drunker end of the scale, the falling down walls, laughing in the streets, can’t walk can’t think can barely _ move _ end of the scale, that he knows just how to handle it. Just keep moving until you hit a taxi or a bed or someone tall who loves you. He doesn’t get in any kind of trouble at that level that can’t be solved with a phone-call, whatever cash he has in his wallet, or simply by the fact of him being Freddie fucking Mercury.

Freddie _ sober _ is more dangerous than Freddie smashed.

Freddie with an aching heart and just slightly too much champagne in his veins is a recipe for certain disaster.

The plates are cleared, which can only mean one thing, and Freddie sinks down in his seat, just a little, as another round of champagne glasses make their way across the room. Dominique’s father stands first, tapping his dessert spoon against the flute, which is lucky because Freddie has half a speech and half a prayer tucked into his jacket pocket and isn’t prepared to use either. 

He hadn’t thought, when Roger asked him to be his best man, about the speech. Freddie is good on a stage, larger than life and out of reach. Up there he can be anyone people want him to be. But this isn’t a performance Roger’s asking him for. He’s asked for something real, and these days Freddie’s not sure he knows what that even is.

Roger should have asked Deaky to be his best man. Deaky is dependable, solid, all the things Freddie isn’t. Deaky’s speech would be dry and witty, full of the most astute observations to make the crowd fall about with laughter one second then wipe away a tear at the next. He should have asked Brian. Brian would have talked for far too long, so close to boring everyone to tears, before finally hitting the nail on the head in the most perfect way possible. Either of them would have been suitable choices, great choices.

But then Dominique’s father is sitting down, the room is clapping, and there’s no time for Roger to change his mind.

The first half of Freddie’s speech goes fine. That’s the part he’s written down, all the dirty stories about Roger he can get away with in front of his mother and a couple he can’t, before he got bored with writing it and decided that the rest was probably best coming straight from the heart. 

His heart was in much better shape then.

Now he has a perfect line of sight to the first table across the dance floor, where Brian is sat besides Chrissy, a child on either side of them, John and Ronnie next to them, their three children filling up the rest of the table. Roger is laughing at his side, arm casually but dependably wrapped around Dom’s shoulders, and Freddie is absolutely, inescapably, surrounded by love.

“I remember,” He says, has to clear his throat and talk closer to the mic to get the words out, “The first time Roger told me he was going to marry Dominique.”

It’d been nearly a year after they’d met, after Roger had charmed his way into just one date, then a second, then a whole string of them before they jetted off on tour again. Life had been normal on tour, expensive parties and cheap girls, everything Roger had gotten in rock and roll for, and then they had a leg in the UK once again, and Dominique had come back on the scene, like no other girl had done before, and Roger had chased after her just like before.

When they left again to record, she’d flown to Munich for a weekend. After that, Roger flew to Paris for three days while she was in the city for her work. She’d kept showing up and, after a while, they all realised she was here to stay. Then they realised that, while Roger hadn’t changed in every way, he’d changed in one that mattered. The parties and the wild nights didn’t disappear, but the girls did.

“I’m gonna marry her,” Roger had said, simple, and six years later he did.

Freddie gestures with his nearly-empty champagne glass, which spills a little over the edge, onto his hands. “Roger would have given it all up for Dom. He told me so himself, the utter romantic. For Dom, he would have-” 

His voice breaks.

“-Would have given anything. That’s what it is, isn’t it? _ Love_. Love is sacrifice. It’s choosing that one- that _ one _ person to put above all the rest. And to keep choosing them, over and over, every day. Every damn day. It’s beautiful, really, and Roggie, darling, I am so fucking glad you found her. That you found each other. Because you deserve someone who makes you want to _ just- _” He gestures with the champagne glass, a little too wildly, feels his balance give in for half a second. “-throw it all away just to be with them.” 

The words are tripping out of him, and so many more could come after them. Dangerous words, damning words. Freddie sees Brian frowning, setting his glass back on the table carefully, eyes on Freddie like he’s bracing for what could possibly come next.

He’s holding his breath, Freddie realises, waiting for Freddie to throw it all away.

Freddie’s not sure he has anything left to give.

“Not everybody gets that, darlings,” Freddie says, tearing his eyes away from Brian. His vision feels like it’s blurring, his throat choking up. “It’s rare and it’s precious and I need you both to _ fucking _ hold onto it for me. Somebody needs to.”

“_Fred_,” Roger says, voice low with concern, and Freddie is definitely about to start crying if he doesn’t get out of here _ now _.

“_Roger and Dom!_” He manages, a little too loud, cutting over Roger, and thrusts his empty champagne glass high into the air. 

Thankful for normality, the hall erupts into the echo, a forest of arms and crystal glasses waving in the air, and Freddie takes the immediate opportunity to duck out the back. He’s done it for years, slipping undetected out of concert venues and back-alley clubs alike where everyone wanted a piece of him; he can certainly made an _ exeunt _ when he’s not the most important part of the day, even if he might now be in the running for biggest spectacle. 

Before the door closes behind him, all he sees is a flash; Brian halfway out of his seat, Chrissy’s hand gripping his arm tightly, and Freddie can’t look anymore. 

He balances the glass on a nearby window-ledge with infinite care for the blasted thing, and walks to the edge of the terrace. Around him, staff are setting up for the rest of the night, stringing up extra lights and laying out tables and chairs for when the party inevitably spills out into the open air. All of them mercifully ignore him, even when he bites out a curse upon remembering his fucking cigarettes are still in Roger’s car. 

His eyes tear up again in frustration. About the cigarettes, the speech, the whole fucking thing.

Behind him he can hear the strains of the band starting up, and then the distinctive sound of the door opening and closing quietly behind someone stepping out after him. He wipes at his eyes quickly.

Deaky, undoubtedly. The only one really able to pull away for a few minutes to follow a wayward bandmate, and isn’t that thought just fucking depressing? Freddie’s going to have to stop drinking champagne or else they’re all going to tire of this shit. God knows Freddie is.

It’s always Deaky who comes along at times like these, when Freddie’s upset about Brian. _Truly_ upset about Brian. If it’s a row over a song or a set list, Roger will come looking, always eager to throw his lot in against whichever side Brian’s on, but he doesn’t really know what to do when it’s serious, when one of his friends is hurting his other friend however unintentionally. On those days, Deaky comes along to sit with him, comforting hand on his back and a silent presence beside him, because Deaky said everything he had to say about Freddie and Brian in the beginning. He never makes Freddie hear it again, but Freddie does all the same.

_ “This will break your heart, Freddie,” _ he hears every time. _ “You deserve more than this.” _

He’s never heard it this loud before. 

“Everyone cries at weddings, Deaky,” Freddie says without turning around. No response. “Darling, I’m fine, honestly, you can go back inside. I don’t want to have to explain to Ronnie why you’re not in there dancing with-”

Then there’s a hand on his hip, long-fingers and firm grip cutting him off, and Freddie closes his eyes. Leans back into the way Brian presses himself up against him then presses a kiss to the top of his head like Freddie’s something small and gentle to be cherished. 

And Freddie shouldn’t reach down and take Brian’s hands, pull his arms around him and try and lose himself in the feeling. He should struggle, maybe, turn around and slap him, or pummel him with closed fists until he tires himself out. But Freddie is already exhausted.

“I thought it’d be fine,” He confesses, quietly, and he means it all. The wedding, yes, but mostly how he thought he’d be fine settling for only half of Brian once again. “I thought-” He cuts himself off, because that way madness lies.

“I’m so sorry.” Brian’s voice is ragged even quietly whispered into Freddie’s hair, and Freddie’s breath catches.

Because Brian’s apologies for this are few and far between, only brought out for the worst of the worst. Freddie’s never wanted him to apologise, to admit there was anything to be sorry for, and really there’s never been any point. Freddie knew what he was getting into, they both did, and if Brian started apologising every time Freddie’s heart got a little bit more mangled, he’d never stop. He apologised that first fateful morning after they slept together, until Freddie told him off for ruining the whole affair and dragged him back to bed. He apologised when he took that phone-call six months ago and again when he packed his bag to go. And he’s apologising now.

“I should have told you sooner,” Brian says, and that could mean anything. There’s a lot of things Brian should have told Freddie about sooner. “I wanted to wait until we were out of London, back to normal. I didn’t want to…” He sighs. “I didn’t want you to have to wait.”

If Freddie weren’t so sad, his laugh would be bitter. “Darling, all I do is wait for you.”

Brian makes a noise like Freddie’s punched him, but he doesn’t falter. It’s one of his better traits; once he’s committed to something, he sees it through whether it be an argument, a song, an affair, a marriage. “Miami and I have been talking,” he says, which is not at all where Freddie was expecting this conversation to go. “And there’s still a lot to work through. He’s not strictly speaking that kind of lawyer, and I don’t want it to affect the kids. It’s not going to be a quick process. Divorces can take years in the best of situations, and I-”

Freddie stops listening.

“Divorce?” He repeats on a whisper, turning a little in Brian’s arms to try and see his face, see if he can find the truth of what he’s hearing in the lines of Brian’s mouth, the hazel of his eyes. “You mean you…” And he can see it in Brian’s face, that commitment shining back. But Freddie can’t let himself believe this again. “Darling, you’ve said this before.”

“And I meant it before. Jim’s been working on this since last year. She’s getting the papers on Monday.”

The sentences don’t make sense in that order; it takes Freddie a second or two to process them.

“You’ve been planning this since...Why didn’t you _ say _ anything?”

Brian frowns. “I thought it was obvious.”

“_Obvious?_” Freddie exhales, a mix of disbelief and hysteria, extracting himself from the circle of Brian’s arms. Not pulling away, not really, because he’s never been able to do that, but putting enough distance that he can see Brian fully. “Obvious? Darling, she’s _ pregnant_.”

That had been the gut-punch of it all. Not that Brian had still been sleeping with his wife, because Freddie had always been afraid of that being true, had never asked because he didn’t ever want to hear the answer, but because Chrissy, bland, boring Chrissy, Chrissy who Brian stepped out on and never loved the way he loved Freddie, could give Brian the one thing Freddie couldn’t. That he lost Brian to her all over again because of it.

It’s the first time Freddie’s said the words out loud, since the first disbelieving time when Brian had told him. Brian had told him, face white and awful, and they’d never spoken about it since.

All of Brian’s whispered promises, of a divorce, a silver ring for Freddie’s finger, Freddie had thought them all scattered to dust.

“Freddie, you didn’t _ talk _ to me for a month.” Freddie’s beginning to think it should have been longer. But he’s always been weak when he comes to Brian. He’d been hurting and in need of love and, unfortunately, it has only ever been Brian for him. “When you did, I tried to say, tried to explain, but I thought we both knew what was happening. If you thought I was going back for good, how could you-”

“Stand it?” Freddie finishes, and that’s an answer all its own. Freddie has withstood it all.

Brian looks wretched and Freddie can’t bear to see him like this. He reaches up to press a hand to Brian’s cheek, and Brian leans into it. “_Brian- _”

Brian shakes his head against whatever Freddie’s going to say, and reaches for Freddie once again as if he can’t stop himself. And Freddie goes, tucks into Brian’s chest because he can stop himself either. That’s how they got into this whole mess, really. 

The kiss Brian presses to his forehead is hard. He can feel Brian’s breath against him. “I’m so sorry,” he says again, fierce. “But I _ promise _ this is it.”

“But-”

“_Freddie _,” Brian stresses his name, and Freddie looks up. Their foreheads knock together and Brian holds them there, makes Freddie look into his eyes as he says, “This is it.”

And Freddie, god help him, believes him.

“Okay, darling,” He says, nodding, nose rubbing against Brian’s as he moves. “_Okay_.”

He knows that look glittering in Brian’s eyes now. He sees that look on stage most night, some version or another of it. Brian wants to kiss him. “Dance with me,” He says instead, holding out a hand.

Dressed in his suit, bow-tie slightly askew, flowers white at his breast, and a hand out for Freddie, Brian looks like a dream, like everything Freddie could ever want. 

Without hesitation, Freddie takes it.

**Author's Note:**

> Cheesy title, but what else can you possibly call a sad wedding fic?
> 
> I'm on tumblr as queerbrianmay - come say hi!


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